m 


&&, 


^BYROJTS  CORSAIR, 


DUKE 

UNIVERSITY 

LIBRARY 


Treasure  %oom 


THE  CORSAIR, 


A  TALE. 


BY  LORD  BYRON. 


i... 
••«! 


••  .„..., I  suol  pensieri  in  ltd  dormir  uon  ponno." 

Tasso,  Canto  decimo,Cerusalemme  Liberate. 


FROM  THE  FIFTH  LONDON  EDITION. 


BOSTON : 
PUBLISHED  BY  WEST  &  BLAKE, 

1814, 


TO 

THOMAS  MOORE,  ESQ. 

MY    SEAS    MOORE, 

I  dedicate  to  you  the  last  production  with 
which  I  shall  trespass  oh  public  patience,  and 
jour  indulgence,  for  some  years  ;  and  I  own  that 
I  feel  anxious  to  avail  myself  of  this  latest  and  on- 
ly opportunity  of  adorning  my  pages  with  a  name, 
consecrated  by  unshaken  public  principle,  and 
the  most  undoubted  and  various  talents.  •  While 
Ireland  ranks  you.  among  the  firmest  of  her  patri- 
ots—.while  you  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards 
in  her  estimation,  and  Britain  repeats  and  ratifies 
the  decree — permit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since 
our  first  acquaintance,, has  been  the  years,  he  had 
lost  before  it  commenced,  to  add  the  humble,  but 
sincere  suffrage  of  friendship,  to  the  voice  of  more 
than  one  nation.  It  will  at  least  prove  to  you, 
that  I  have  neither  forgotten  the  gratification  de- 
rived from  your  society,  nor  abandoned  the  pros- 
pect of  its  renewal,  whenever  your  leisure  or  in- 
clination allows  you  to  atone  to  your  friends  for 
too  long  an  absence.  It  is  said  among  those 
friends,  I  trust  truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in  the 
composition  of  a  poem  whose  scene  will  be  laid  in 


4  DEDICATION. 

the  East ;  none  can  do  those  scenes  so  much  jus- 
tice. The  wrongs  of  your  own  country,  the  mag- 
nificent and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty 
and  feeling  of  her  daughters,  may  there  be  found; 
and  Collins,  when  he  denominated  his  Oriental, 
his  Irish  Eclogues,  was  not  aware  how  true,  at 
least,  was  a  part  of  his  parallel.  Your  imagina- 
tionwill  create  a  warmer  sun,  and  less  clouded 
sky  ;  but  wildness,  tenderness,  and  originality  are 
part  of  your  national  claim  of  oriental  descent,  to 
which  you  have  already  thus  far  proved  your  title 
more  clearly  than  the  most  zealous  of  your  coun- 
try's antiquarians.  May  I  add  a  few  words  on  a 
subject  on  which  all  men  are  supposed  to  be  fluent, 
and  none  agreeable  ? — Self.  I  have  written  much, 
and  published  more  than  enough  to  demand  a  lon- 
ger silence  than  I  now  meditate ;  but  for  some 
years  to  come  it  is  my  intention  to  tempt  no  fur- 
ther' the  award  of  "  Gods,  men,  nor  columns." 
la  the  present  composition  I  have  attempted  not 
the  most  difficult,  but,  perhaps,  the  best  adapted 
measure  to  our  language,  the  good  old  and  now 
neglected  heroic  couplet  ; — the  stanza  of  Spencer 
is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified  for  narrative  ; 
though,  I  confess,  it  is  the  measure  most  after  my 
own  heart ;  and  Scott  alone,  of  the  present  gene- 
ration, has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  oyer 


DEDICATION  5 

the  fatal  facility  of  the  octo-syllabic  verse  ;  and 
this  is  not  the  least  victory  of  his  fertile  and  migh- 
ty genius.  In  blank  verse,  Milton,  Thomson,  and 
our  dramatists,  are  the  beacons  that  shine  along 
the  deep,  but  warn  us  from  the  rough  and  barren 
rock  on  which  they  are  kindled.  The  heroic  coup- 
let is  not  the  most  popular  measure  certainly  ; 
but  as  I  did  not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a  wish 
to  flatter  what  is  called  public  opinion,  I  shall  quit 
it  without  further  apology,  and  take  my  chance 
once  more  with  that  versification,  in  which  I  have 
hitherto  published  nothing  but  compositions  whose 
former  circulation  is  part  of  my  present  and  will 
be  of  my  future  regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general, 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  per- 
sonages more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  possible,  in- 
asmuch as  I  have  been  sometimes  criticised,  and 
considered  no  less  responsible  for  their  deeds  and 
qualities  than  if  all  had  been  personal.  Be  it  so— 
if  I  have  deviated  into  the  gloomy  vanity  of 
"  drawing  from  self,"  the  pictures  are  probably 
like,  since  they  are  unfavourable  ;  and  if  not, 
those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those 
who  do  not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving. 
I  have  no  particular  desire  that  any  but  my  ac- 
quaintance should  think  the  author  better  than  the 


6  DEDICATION. 

beings  of  his  imagining  ;  but  I  cannot  help  a  little 
surprise,  and  perhaps  amusement,  at  some  odd 
critical  exceptions  in  the  present  instance,  when.  I 
see  several  bards  (far  more  deserving,  I  allow)  in 
very  reputable  plight,  and  quite  exempted  from 
all  participation  In  the  faults  of  those  heroes,  who, 
nevertheless,  might  be  found  with  little  more  mo- 
rality than  *'  The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps— but  no 
—I  must  admit  Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repul- 
sive personage  ;  and  as  to  his  identity,  those  who 
like  it  must  give  him  whatever  "  alias"  they 
please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the 
impression,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to  me, 
that  the  man  who  is  alike  the  delight  of  his  read- 
ers and  his  friends — the  poet  of  all  circles— and 
the  idol  of  his  own,  permits  me  here  and  else- 
where to  subscribe  myself, 
most  truly, 

and  affectionately, 

his  obedient  servant, 

BYRO# 

January  2,  1814. 


THE  CORSAIR, 

A  TALE. 


miggior  dolors, 


w  Che   ricordarsi  del  tempo  feliee 
"  Nclla  miscria,         ■  ■ 


a  O'ER  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
u  Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free. 
u  Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
"  Survey  our  empire  and  behold  our  home ! 
"  These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway— 
a  Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
a  Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
"  From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 

■  Oh,  who  can  tell?  not  thou, luxurious  slave  ! 

«  Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave  ;  1* 

■  Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease ! 

*  Whom  slumber  sooths  not— pleasure  cannot  please— 

*  Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 

■  And  danc'd  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 

"  The  exulting  sense— the  pulse's  maddening  play, 
"  That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 

*  That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 
"  And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 

*  That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 

*  And  where  the  feebler  faint— can  only  feel—  SO 
«  Feel— to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 

*  Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 


8  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  No  dread  of  death— if  with  us  die  our  foes— 

"  Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose : 

B  Come  when  it  will— we  snatch  the  life  of  life— 

"  When  lost— what  recks  it— hy  disease  or  strife  I 

"  Let  him  who  crawls  enamoured  of  decay, 

"  Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away ; 

"  Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head ; 

"  Ours-—the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 

■  While  gasp  by  gasp  he  faulters  forth  his  soul, 

"  Ours  with  one  pang— one  bound— escapes  control. 

"  His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave, 

u  And  they  who  loath'd  his  life  may  gild  bis  grave : 

"  Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 

"  When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 

*  For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret-supply 

"  In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory  ; 

"  And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 

"  When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 

"  And  cry,  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 

,;  How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now !'' 

II. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle, 

Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while ; 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrill'd  the  rocks  along, 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song .'  ' 

In  scattered  groups  upon  the  golden  sand 

They  game— carouse — converse — or  whet  the  brand ; 

Select  the  arms— to  each  his  blade  assign, 

And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine : 

Repair  the  boat— replace  the  helm  or  oar, 

While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore ; 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net : 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprize— 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil, 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spoil : 

No  matter  where— their  chief's  allotment  this— 

Theirs— to  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss-.  A3 


THE  CORSAIR-  ? 

But  who  that  Chief?  his  name  on  every  shore 
Is  fam'd  and  fear'd— they  ask  and  know  no  more, 
With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command- 
Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand. 
Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess, 
But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 
Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 
That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still— 
And  for  his  fare— the  rudest  of  his  crew 
Would  that, in  turn,have  pass'd  untasted  too;  70 

JEarth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  homeliest  roots, 
And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits* 
His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 
With  all  a  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 
But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 
His  mind  seems  nourish'd  by  that  abstinence. 
*  Steer  to  that  shore !''— they  sail.    "  Do  this  I'*— 'tis  dene: 
■  Now  form  and  follow  me !"— the  spoil  is  won. 
Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 
And  all  obey  and  few  enquire  his  will  ;  80 

To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 
Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

ni. 

*?  A  sail  !— a  sail !"— a  promised  prize  to  Hope  i 

Her  nation— flag— how  speaks  the  telescope  ? 

No  prize, alas!— but  yet  a  welcome  sail  : 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Tes— she  is  our's— a  home  returning  bark — 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze*!— she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  cape — our  bay 

Receives  that  prow  whieh"  proudly  spurns  the  spray ;       5<X 

How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes ! 

Her  white  wings  flying — never  from  her  foes. 

She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife— 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire — the  wreckp-- 

To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck  ?      , 

1?* 


10  THE  CORSAIR. 

IV. 
Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  caMe  rings ; 
The  sails  are  furl'd ;  and  anchoring  round  she  swings  ; 
And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 
Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stern. 
'Tis  mann'd— the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand, 
Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 
Hail  to  the  welcome  shout  !-the  friendly  speech  ! 
When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach  ; 
The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 
And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity  ! 

V. 
The  tidings  spread-and  gathering  grows  the  crowd  : 
The  hum  of  voices— and  the  laughter  loud, 
And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard— 
Friends'-husbands'-lovers'  names  in  each  dear  word. 
»  Oh  !  are  they  safe?  we  ask  not  of  success- 
ful shall  we  see  them  ?  will  their  accents  bless  ? 
«  From  where  the  battle  roars-the  billows  chafe- 
"  They  doubtless  boldly  did-but  who  are  safe  ? 
•  Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise, 
"  And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes  . 

VI. 

P  Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  report- 

«  And  doubt  that  joy- which  hails  our  coming-short, 

"  Yet  thus  sincere— 'tis  cheering,  though  so  brief; 

"  But,  Juan  !  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief: 

«  Our  greeting  paid,  we'll  feast  on  our  return, 

"  And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn." 

Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 

To  where  his  wateh-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 

By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 

And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring, 

Whose  scattered  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 

Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 

From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount-^ear  yonder  cave, 

What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave? 


THE  CORSAIR.  V 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 

Not  oft  a  resting-staff  to  that  red  hand  ? 

u  >Tjs  he— 'tis  Conrad— here— as  wont-alone, 

"  On— Juan !  on— and  make  our  purpose  known. 

"  The  bark  he  views— and  tell  him  we  would  greet 

"  His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 

«  We  dare  not  yet  approach-thou  know'st  his  mood, 

"  When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

VII. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent- 
He  spaUe  not— but  a  sign  express'd  assent.  14° 
These  Juan  calls- they  come-tb  their  salute 
He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his'lips  are  mute. 
"  These  letters,  chief;  are  from  the  Greek -the  spy- 
"  Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh  ; 
"  Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report, 
"  Much  that"-''  Peace,  peace  !"-he  cuts  their  pratmg  short. 
Wondering  they  turn-abashed-while  each  to  each 
Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech  : 
They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing  look, 
To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took  ;  ISO 
But— this  as  if  he  guess'd— with  head  aside— 
Perchance  from  some  emotion— doubt,  or  pride- 
He  read  the  scroll-"  My  tablets.  Juan.hark- 
"  Where  is  Gonsalvo  I" 

*  In  the  anchored  bark.'' 
■  There  let  him  stay— to  him  this  order  bear. 
"  Back  to  your  duty— for  my  course  prepare : 
"  Myself  this  enterprize  to-night  will  share." 

"  To-night,  Lord  Conrad  V 

"  Ay  !  at  set  of  sun :  160 

"  TheTireeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
"  My  corslet— cloak— one  hour— and  we  are  gone. 
"  Sling  on  thy  bugle— see  that  free  from  rust, 
"  My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ; 
"  Be  the  edge  sharpenM  of  my  boa-ding-brand, 
u  And  give  it's  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 

/ 


U  THE  CORSAIR, 

"  This  let  the  Armourer  with  speed  dispose  ; 
u  Last  time— it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes : 
a  Mark  that  the  signal  gun  be  duly  fired, 
"  To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay's  expired." 

VIII. 

They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  baste, 
Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste : 
Yet  they  repine  not — so  that  Conrad  guides, 
And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides  ? 
That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh— 
Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 
And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue  ; 
Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles— leads— yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart. 
What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 
Confess  and  envy — yet  oppose  in  vain  ? 
%Vhat  should  it  be  ?  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind  ? 
The  power  of  Thought— the  magic  of  the  Mind  ! 
Linked  with  success — assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will — 
Wields  with  their  hands— but  still  to  these  unknown, 
Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  own. 
Such  hath  it  been— shall  be— beneath  the  sun 
The  many  -still  must  labour  for  the  one  ; 
'Tis  Nature's  doom— but  let  the  wretch  who  toils, 
Accuse  not— hate  not— him  who  wears  the  spoils. 
Oh !  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  pains  ! 

IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race. 

Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  face, 

In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 

Though  his  dark  eye-brow  shades  a  glance  of  fire  : 

Robust  but  not  Herculean— to  the  sight 

Vo    giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height  ; 


THE  CORSAIR.  13 

Yet  in  the  whole— wlio  paused  to  look  again, 
Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men— 
They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 
That  thus  it  is,  hut  why  they  cannot  guess. 
Sun-burnt  his  cheek — his  forehead  high  and  pale,— 
The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil ; 
And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 
The  "haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 
Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien, 
Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen.       210 
His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue, 
At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view, 
As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 
Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined ; 
Such  might  it  be— that  none  could  truly  tell- 
Too  close  enquiry  his  stern  glance  Could  quell. 
There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  could  defy 
The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye  ;— 
He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning's  gaze  would  seek 
To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek,  220 

At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy, 
And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny, 
Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray     . 
Some  secret  thought— than  drag  that  chief's  to  day. 
There  was  a  laughing  Devil  in  his  sneer, 
That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear  ; 
And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 
Hope  withering  fled— and  Mercy  sighed  farewell ! 


Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 

Within — within— 'twas  there  the  spirit  wrought ! 

Love  shows  all  changes — Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 

Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile ; 

The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 

Along  the  govern'd  aspect,  speak  alone 

Of  deeper  passions ;  and  to  judge  their  mien, 

He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen.  - 

Then — with  the  hurried  step,  the  upward  eye, 

The  clenched  band,  the  pause  of  agony, 


14  THE  CORSAIR. 

That  listens,  startingrlest  the  step  too  near, 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear : 
Then— with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart, 
With  feelings  loosed  to  strengthen— not  depart- 
That  rise— convulse— subside— that  freeze,  or  glow, 
Plush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  blow, 
Then,  Stranger  !  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul-the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
Mark-how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years  ! 
Behold— but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see, 
Man  as  himself— the  secret  spirit  free  ? 

XI. 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  Nature  sent 
To  lead  the  guilty— guilt's  worse  instrument— 
His  soul  was  changed— before  his  deeds  had  driven 
Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 
Warp  dby  the  world  in  Disappointment's  school, 
In  words  too  wise— in  conduct  there  a  fool- 
Too  firm  to  yield— and  far  too  proud  to  stoop— 
Doomd  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe, 
He  cuvs'd  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 
And  not  the  traitors  who  betrayed  him  still ; 
Nov  deem'd  that  gifts  bestowed  on  better  men 
Had  left  him  joy.  and  means  to  give  again. 
Fear'd-shunn'd-belied-ere  youth  had  lost  her  force, 
He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse— 
And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call, 
To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 
He  knew  himself  a  villain— but  he  deem'd 
The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seem'd ; 
And  scom'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 
Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirifplainly  did. 
He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 
The  hearts  that  loath'd  him  crouch'd  and  dreaded  too. 
Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 
From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 
His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise  ; 
But  they  that  fear'd  bira  dared  vnot  to  despise  : 


THE  COKSAIR. 


Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
The  slumbering  venom  «f  the  folded  snake. 

XII. 
None  are  all  evil-clinging  round  his  heart, 
One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ; 
Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguild 
By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child- 
Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove, 
And  e'en  in  him  it  asks  die  name  of  Love  ! 
Yes,  it  was  love— unchangeable— unchanged- 
Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged  ; 
Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye, 
He  shunn'd,  nor  sought,  but  coldly  pass  d  them  by  ; 
Though  many  a  beauty  droop'd  in  prison'd  bower, 
None  ever  sooth'd  his  most  unguarded  hour.  W 

Yes-it  was  Love-if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 
Tried  in  temptation,  strengthen'd  by  distress, 
•Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime, 
And  yet-Oh  more  than  all  !-untired  by  time- 

Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile, 

Could  render  sullen  were  she  ne'er  to  smile, 

Nor  rage  coidd  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 

On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent— 

Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part,     ^ 

Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart  ;  309 

Which  nought  remov'd— nor  menaced  to  remove— 

If  there  be  love  in  mortals— this  was  love  ! 

He  was  a  villain-aye— reproaches  shower 

On  him— but  not  tile  passion,  nor  its  power, 

Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone, 

Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one  i 

XIII. 

He  paused  a  moment— till  his  hastening  men 

Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 

"  Strange  tidings  !— many  a  peril  have  I  past, 

"  Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last !  3 16 

"  Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 

"  Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  Mere. 


16-  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  'Tis  rash  to  meet— but  surer  death  to  wait-* 

"  Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate, 

"  And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  Fortune  smile, 

"  We'll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral-pile. 

"  Ay— let  them  slumber— peaceful  be  their  dreams 

"  Morn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams  J 

"  As  kindle  high  to  night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze !) 

"  To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas.  320 

"  Now  to  Medora— Oh  !  my  sinking  heart, 

*  Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 

"  Yet  was  I  brave— mean  boast !  where  all  are  brave— 

"  Ev'n  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  to  save— 

"  This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we  share, 

"  That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair, 

"  Small  merit  claims— but  'twas  my  nobler  hope 

"  To  teach  my  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope  ; 

"  Long  have  I  led  them— not  to  vainly  bleed : 

u  No  medium  now— we  perish  or  succeed  !  3  JO 

"  So  let  it  be— it  irks  not  me  to  die ; 

"  But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly— 

"  My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 

"  But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snare  j 

"  Is  this  my  skill  ?  my  craft  ?  to  set  at  last 

8  Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast  ?  ' 

*'  Oil,  Fate  '—accuse  thy  folly,  ndt  thy  fate— 

0  She  may  redeem  thee  still— nor  yet  too  late." 

XIV. 
Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he— till 
He  reach'd  the  summit  of  his  tower-erown'd  hill : .  340 

There  at  the  portal  paus'd— for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  aceents  never  heard  too  oft ; 
Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  rurlg,- 
And  these  the  notes  his  bird  of  beauty  sung  : 

1. 
"  Seep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 

Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore, 
Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells*-. 

Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 


THE  CORSAIR.  17 

2. 
"  There  in  its  centre— a  sepulchral  lamp 

Burns  the  slow  flame  eternal— 'but  unseen ;  350 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp, 

Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 

3. 
"  Remember  me— Oh  !  pass  not  thou  my  grave, 

Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recline : 
The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave, 

Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  in  thine. 

4. 
"  My  fondest— faintest— latest— accents  hear: 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove  ; 
Then  give  me  all  I  ever  asked— a  tear, 
The  first— last— sole  reward  of  so  much  love !"  360 

He  pass'd  the  portal— cross'd  the  corridore, 

And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o'er : 

"  My  own  Medora— sure  thy  song  is  sad—'' 

"  In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad  I 

"  Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 

u  Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray : 

"  Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit, 

"  My  heart  unhush'd— although  my  lips  were  mute ! 

"  Oh  !  many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclin'd, 

"  My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wing'd  the  wind,  370 

"  And  deem'd  the  breath  that  faintly  fann'd  thy  sail,— 

"  The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale  ; 

"  Though  soft— it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 

"  That  mourn'd  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge  ; 

"  Still  would  I  rise— to  rouse  the  beacon  fire, 

"  Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire ; 

"  And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatch'd  each  star 

"  And  morning  came— and  still  thou  wert  afar. 

"  Oh  !  how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 

"  And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view,  380 


18  THE  CORSAIR. 

«  And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed— and  not  a  prow 
"  Was  granted  to  my  tears— my  truth— my  vow  I 
"  At  lengtb»-'twas  noon— I  hail'd  and  blest  the  mast 
"  That  met  my  sight— it  near'd— Alas !  it  past ! 
"  Another  came— Oh  God  !  'twas  thine  at  last ! 
"  Would  that  those  days  were  over  !  wilt  thou  ne'er, 

*  My  Conrad!  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 

«  Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth— and  many  a  home 

*  As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam  s  < 
"  Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear, 

0  1  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here ; 
"  Then  not  for  mine— but  that  far  dearer  life, 

*  Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife— 
"  How  strange  that  heart  to  me  so  tender  still, 

"  Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will !" 

"  Yea,  strange  indeed-that  heart  hath  long  been  changed, 

"  Worm-like  'twas  trampled— adder-like  avenged, 

"  Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 

"  And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  front  above. 

"  Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn,  400 

"  My  very  love  to  thee  is1  hate  to  them, 

"  So  closely  mingling  here,  that  disentwin'd, 

"  I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind : 

"  Yet  dread  not  this— the  proof  of  all  the  past 

«'  Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last ; 

"  But-Oh,  Medora  !  nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 

"  This  hour  again— but  not  for  long— we  part." 

*  This  hour  we  part !— my  heart  forboded  this. 

*  Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss— 

"  This  hour— it  cannot  be— this  hour  away  !  410 

b  Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchored  in  the  bay. 

*  Her  consort  still  is  absent— and  her  crew 
*'  Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew  ; 

"  My  love  !  thou  mock'st  my  weakness  ;  and  would'st  steel 
"  My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  fail. 
"  But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress, 
b  Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness « 


THE  CORSAIB.  * 

*  Be  silent,— Conrad  .'—dearest— come  and  share 
"  The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare— 

"  Light  toil !  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare !  420 

"  See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best, 
"  And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleased,  I  guess'd 
w  At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest :  thrice  the  hill 

*  My  steps  have  wound  to  .try  the  coolest  rill ; 
•'  Yes  !  thy  Sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 
"  See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow ! 

"  The  grapes'  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers— 

"  Thou— more  than  Moslem— when  the  cup  appears— 

■  Think  not  I  mean  to  chide— for  I  rejoice 

"  What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice.  430 

6  But  come— the  board  is  spread— our  silver  lamp 

"  Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  Sirocco's  damp  : 

"  Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along 

u  And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song ; 

"  Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

"  Shall  sooth  or  lull— or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear, 

a  We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariostotold, 

"  Of  fair  Olympia  lov'd  and  left  of  old.  [1] 

«  why— thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 

"  To  that  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  now  ;         440 

"  Or  even  that  traitor  chief— I've  seen  thee  smile, 

"  When  the  clear  sky  showed  Ariadne's  Isle, 

"  Which  I  have  pointed  from  these  cliffs  the  while : 

^  And  thus— half  sportive— half  in  fear— I  said, 

"  Lest  Time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  mere  than  dread, 

"  Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main  : 

"  And  he  deceiv'd  me— for— he  came  again  !'> 

"  Again— again— and  oft  again— my  love  ! 

"  If  there  be  lite  below,  and  hope  above, 

"  He  will  return— but  now— the  moments  bring  450 

"  The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing  : 

a  The  why— the  where— what  boots  it  now  to  tell  ? 

"  Since  all  must  end  in  that  wide  world— farewell .' 

"  Yet  would  I  fain— did  time  allow— disclose— 

f4  Fear  not— these  are  no  formidable  foes ; 


20  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard, 

"  For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepar'd  : 

"  Nor  be  thou  lonely— though  thy  lord's  away, 

"  Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay  ; 

"  And  this  thy  comfort— that,  when  next  we  meet,         460 

"  Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet : 

"  List !— 'tis  the  bugle— Juan  shrilly  blew— 

"  One  kiss— one  more— another— Oh  !  Adieu  !'' 

She  rose— she  sprung— she  clung  to  his  embrace. 

Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 

He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 

That  downcast  droop 'd  in  tearless  agony. 

Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 

In  all  the  wildness  of  dishevelled  charms ; 

Scarce  beat  that  bosom— where  his  image  dwelt—  470 

So  full—  that  feeling  seem'd  almost  unfelt ! 

Hark— peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun  ! 

It  told  'twas  sunset— and  he  cnrs'd  that  sun. 

Again— again— that  form  he  madly  press'd, 

Which  mutely  clasp'd— imploringly  caress'd 

And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore, 

One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more — 

Felt— that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 

Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead — turn'd— is  Conrad  gone? 

XV. 
"  And  is  he  gone.?"— on  sudden  solitude  4B0 

How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude  ? 
"  'Twas  but  an  instant  past— and  here  he  stood  ! 
"  And  now"— without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd— 
And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd, 
Big— bright— and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell ; 
But  still  her  lips  refus'd  to  send—"  Farewell !" 
For  in  that  word— that  fatal  word— howe'er 
We  promise— hope— believe— there  breathes  despair. 
O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 
Had  sorrow  fix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase  :  480 

The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy— 


THE  CORSAIR.  21 

Till— Oh,  how  far !  it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him— 

And  then  it  flow'd— and  phrenzied  seem'd  to  swim 

Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew'd 

With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew'd. 

"  He's  gone !''— against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 

Convuk/d  and  quick— then  gently  raised  to  heaven ; 

She  look'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 

The  white  sail  set— she  dared  not  look  again  ;  500 

But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate— • 

"It  is  no  dream— and  I  am  desolate !" 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending— swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn'd  his  head  ; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey— 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep, 
That  hailed  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep  : 
And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar,  51fl 

On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest— but  on  Destruction's  brink- 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd— and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave ; 
But  no— it  must  not  be— a  worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 
He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  far  the  wind, 
And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind : 
Again  he  hurries  on— and  as  he  hears 
The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears,  520 

The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore— 
The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar 
As  marks  Ids  eye  the  seaboy  on  the  mast, 
The  Anchor's  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 
The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 
That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge ; 
And  more  than  all— his  blood-red  flag  aloft— 
He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 
Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast, 
He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest;  530 


•23  THE  CORSAIR. 

He  bounds-he  flies-until  his  footsteps  reach 
The  verge  -where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach^ 
There  checks  his  speed  ;  but  pauses  less  to  bieathe 
The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath, 
Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew  ; 
Nor  rush,  disturb'd  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view  : 
For  well  had  Conrad  learn'd  to  awe  the  crowd, 
By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud ; 
His  was  the  lofty  port  the  distant  mien, 
That  seems  to  shun  the  sight-and  awes  if  seen :  5« 

The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 
That  checks  low  mirth,  but  laeks  not  courtesy ; 
All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent- 
But  where  he  wished  to  win,  so  well  wnbent, 
That  kindness  cancell'd  fear  in  those  who  heard, 
And  other's  gifts  shewed  mean  beside  his  word— 
When  echoed  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own, 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone : 
But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 
He  cared  not  what  he  soften'd-but  subdued  ;- 
The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him  value  less  who  loved— than  what  obeyed. 

xvn. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 
Before  him  Juan  stands-"  Are  all  prepared . 

"  They  are-nay  more-embarked »  the  latesj  boa.t 

■--  Waits  but  my  chiefs " 

*  My  sword,  and  my  capote.- 
Soon  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung ; 
«  Call  Pedro  here  !"-He  comes-and  «onrad  bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign'd  his  friends  ;  *«> 

"  Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  care, 

*  Words  of  high  trust,  and  truth  are  graven  there ; 
"  Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 

■  Arrives,  let'him  alike  these  orders  mark  : 

«  In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  shall  shine 

*  On  our  return-till  then  aU  peace  be  thine  P 


THE  CORSAIR.  23 

fins  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung, 
Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flash'd  the  dip'd  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke, 
Around  the  wares  phosphoric  [2]  brightness  broke ;       57fr 
/They  gain  the  vessel— on  the  deck  he  stands. 
Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle— ply  the  busy  bands- 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys, 
How  gallant  all  her  crew— and  deigns  to  praise. 
His-eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn  ; 
Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  ? 
Alas !  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower, 
And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour; 
'She— his  Medora— did  she  mark  the  prow  ? 
Ah  !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now  !  580 

But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day. 
Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away ; 
Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends. 
And  (there  unfolds  his  plan— his  means— and  ends  ; 
Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chai£ 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art  ;• 
They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate- 
To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  J 
Mean  time,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew, 
And  fast  and  Falcon-like  the  vessel  flew ;  S90 

Fass'd  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isle, 
To  gain  their  port— long— long  ere  morning  smite : 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 
Count  they  each  sail— and  mark  how  there  supine 
The  lights  in  vain  o.'er  heedless  Moslem  shine ; 
Secure— unnoted— Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by, 
And  anchor'd  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie ; 
Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 
That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape.  60& 

Then  rose  bis  band  to  duty— not  trom  sleep 
Equip  p'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep  ; 
"While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 
And  calmly  talk'd— and  yet  be  tall.'d  of  blood  ! 

END  OF  CANTO  J, 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO    II. 


Co;io<cesie  i  dubiosi  d«jri  ?" 

DauVe. 


IN  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light, 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  gives  a  feast  to-night : 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fetterM  Rovers  home ; 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword,  510 

And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 
His  sammon'd  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews— and  loud  the  boast— 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize, 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise. 
)Tis  but  to  sail— no  doubt  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound— their  haven  won  ! 
Mean  time  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 
Jfor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill  : 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek  620 

To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek ; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave— 
fo  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave ! 
Infest  his  dwelling— but  forbear  to  slay, 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 
Vnd  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may  ! 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow, 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 


89  THE  CORSAIR. 

Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile, 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile ; 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 


High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Seyd : 
Around— the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilaff- 
Forbidden  draughts,  'tis  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice,  [3] 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslem's  use ; 
The  long  Chiboque's  [4]  dissolving  clouds  supply, 
"While  dance  the  Almas  [5]  to  wild  minstrelsy: 
The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark  ; 
But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark  : 
And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken-couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep  ; 
Feast  there  who  can— nor  combat  till  they  must, 
And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 
And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 
Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast. 

III. 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate, 

Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 

Bows  his  bent  head— his  hand  salutes  the  floor, 

Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore : 

li  A  captive  Dervise,  from  the  pirate's  nest 

"  Escaped,  is  here— himself  would  tell  the  rest." 

He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye, 

And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 

His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest, 

His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest ; 

Yet  wofti  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 

And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears, 

Yow'd  to  his  God— his  sable  locks  he  wore, 

And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er : 


THE  CORSAIR.  27 

Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 
And  wrapt  a  breast  bestow'd  on  heaven  alone ; 
Submissive,  yet  with  self-possession  mann'd, 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  tliat  scann'd  ; 
And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allowed  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise .*' 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den,  670 

B  A  fugitive-1-" 

*  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?>' 
"  From  Scalanova's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
c  The  Saick  was  bound  ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 
"  Upon  our  course— the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 
"  The  Rovers  won  :  our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains. 
"  I  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 
"  Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  1  lost ; 
"  At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
"  Afforded  hope, and  offered  chance  of  flight: 
"  I  seized  the  hour,  and  rind  my  safety  here—  680 

*  With  thee— most  mighty  Pacha  !  who  can  fear  ?" 

"  How  speed  the  outlaws  ?  stand  they  well  prepared, 
"  Their  plunder'd  wealth,  and  robber's  rock  to  guard  ? 
"  Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom'd 
"  To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed  ?'? 

"  Pacha  !  the  fettered  captive's  mourning  eye 

"  That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy  ; 

"  I  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar, 

"  Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the  shore ;  . 

*  I  only  mark'd  the  glorious  sun  and  sky,  '  690 
"  Too  bright— too  blue— for  my  captivity ; 

"  And  felt— that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  dheers, 
"  Must  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 

*  This  mayst  thou  judge,  at  least  from  my  escape, 
f>  They  little  deem  of  aught  in  Peril's  shape; 


28  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  Else  vainly  had  I  prayed  or  sought  the  ehauce 
»  That  leads  me  here— if  eyed  with  vigilance : 
«*  The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 
"  May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh. 
"  Pacha  !— my  limbs  are  faint— and  nature  craves 
"  Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves; 
"  Permit  my  absence— peace  be  with  thee !  Peace 
"  With  all  around  !— now  grant  repose— release." 

"  Stay,  Dervise !  I  have  more  to  question— stay, 
'«  I  do  command  thee— sit-dost  hear?— obey  ! 
«  More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring ; 
"  Thou  shalt  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting: 
"  The  supper  done— prepare  thee  to  reply, 
"  Clearly  and  full— I  love  not  mystery." 

'Twere  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pioa»  man, 
Who  look'd  not  lovingly  on  that  divan ; 
Nor  show'd  high  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest. 
'Twas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast : 
He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  torsook  : 
The  feast  was  usher'd  in— but  sumptuous  fare 
He  shunn'd  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
Tor  one  so  long  condemn'd  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 
"  What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  eat— dost  thou  suppose 
«  This  feast  a  Christian's  ?  or  my  friends  thy  foes  ? 
"  Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  ?  that  sacred  pledge, 
"  Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 
"  Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 
a  And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !n 

*  Salt  seasons  dainties— and  my  food  is  still 

"  The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill ; 


THE  CORSAIR.  2» 

*  And  my  stem  tow  and  order's  [6]  laws  oppose  730 

«  To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes ; 
«  It  may  seem  strange-if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 
'•'  That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head ; 
«  But  for  thy  sway-nay  mow-thy  Sultan's  throne, 
«  I  taste  nor  bread  nov  banquet-save  alone  ; 
«  Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
«  To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 

«  •well— as  thou  wilt— ascetic  as  thou  art— 

"  One  question  answer ;  then  in  peace  depart. 

«  How  many  ?-Ha  !-it  cannot  sure  be  day  ?  740 

«  WJhat  star— what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 

«  It  shines  a  lake  of  fire !— .way-away  ! 

«  Ho !  treachery  !  my  guards  !  my  scimitar ! 

"  The  galleys  feed  the  flames— and  I  afar! 

"  Accursed  Dervise !— these  thy  tidings— thou 

«  Some  villain  suy-seize-cleave  him-slay  him  now  ! 

Up  rose  the  Dei-vise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appal'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise— not  in  saintly  garb, 
But  like  a  wanior  bounding  from  his  barb,  7  50 

Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away- 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume. 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom, 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes,  some  Afrit  sprite, 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight . 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below  ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell— 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell,  760 

Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell! 
Distracted  to  and  fro  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves  ; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 
They  seize  that  Dervise  I— seize  on  Zatanai !  [7] 


30  THE  CORSAIR. 

He  saw  their  terror— check'd  the  first  despair 

That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 

Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd, 

The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made ; 

He  saw  their  terror— ftom  his  baldric  k  drew  770 

His  bugle— brief  the  blast— but  shrilly  blew 

'Tis  answer'd— "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew ! 

"  Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career  ? 

"  And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ?" 

Sweeps  his  long  arms— that  sabre's  whirling  sway, 

Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay ; 

Completes  his  fury,  what  their  fear  begun, 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 

The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head :  780 

Even  Seyd,  convuls'd,  o'erwhelm'd  with  rage,  surprize, 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he— and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow 

So  much  confusion  magnifies  his  foe! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight ;  [8] 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Haram  gate, 

And  burst  within— and  it  were  death  to  wait ; 

Where  wild  amazement  shrieking— kneeling— throws 

The  sword  aside— in  vain— the  blood  o'erflows !  790 

The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within, 

Invited  Conrad's  bugle  and  the  din 

Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  crits  for  life, 

Proclaimed  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 

They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A  glutted  tyger  mangling  in  his  lair  ! 

But  short  their  greeting— shorter  his  reply— 

"  'Tis  well— but  Seyd  escapes— and  he  must  die? 

"  Much  hath  been  done— but  more  remains  to  do— 

"  Their  galleys  blaze— why  not  their  city  too  ?"  890 


THE  CORSAIR.  31 

V. 

Quick  at  the  word-they  seized  him  each  a  torch, 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A  stern  delight  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye, 

But  sudden  sunk-for  on  his  ear  the  cry 

Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell  ^ 

Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle  s  yell. 

«  Oh  !  burst  the  Haram-wrong  not  on  your  lives 

"  One  female  form— remember—a*  have  wives. 

«  On  them  such  outrage  Vengeance  will  repay ; 

«  Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  'tis  ours  to  slay  : 

«  But  still  we  spared-must  spare  the  weaker  prey. 
«  Oh  !  lforgot-but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 
8  If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live  ; 
"  Follow  who  will-I  go-we  yet  have  time 
«  Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 
He  climbs  the  crackling  stair- he  bursts  the  door, 
Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor ; 
His  breath  chok'd  gasping  with  the  volumed  smoke, 
But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke  : 
They  search— they  find— they  save :  with  lusty  arms 
Each  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms  ; 
Calm  their  loud  fears;  sustain  their  sinking  frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims : 
So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood, 
And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 
But  who  is  she  ?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 
From  reeking  pUe  and  combat's  wreck— away— 
Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed  ? 
The  Haram  queen— but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd  I 

VI. 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gutaaiie,  [9  3  830 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair ; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'dfrom  war, 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far, 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 

First  slowlier  fled-then  rallied-then  withstood. 


8g0 


3*  THE  CORSAIR. 

This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few, 
Compar'd  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew 
And  blushes  o'er  his  error  as  he  eyes 
The  ruin  wrought  by  "panic  and  surprize. 
Alia  il  Alia  !  Vengeance  swells  the  cry—  840 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die ! 
And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell, 
The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flowed  too  well- 
When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife,  ^*  - 
And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life._ 
Conrad  beheld  the  danger— he  beheld 
His  followers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repelled  : 
'•'  One  effort— one— to  break  the  circling  host !" 
They  form— unite— charge— waver— all  is  lost ! 
Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset,  8S0- 
Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet— 
Ab  !  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 
Hemmdin— cut  off— cleft  down— and  trampled  o'er  ; 
But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 
And  sinks  outwearied  rather  than  o'ercome, 
His  last  faint  quittance  rendering'withhis  breath, 
1  ill  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death. 

VII. 
But  first,ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Haram  handmaids  freed,    _  £60 

Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed 
By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow 'd, 
And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that  flow'd  : 
And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recal'.'d  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair, 
r^ucli  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 
That  smooth'd  his  accents— soften'd  in  his  eye. 
'  I'was  strange— tkat  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd, 
Seem'd  gentler  tken  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood, 
'i 'he  Pacha  wooed  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave  810 

Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 
The  Corsair  vowed  protection,  sooth'd  affright, 
As  if  lij*  Komage  were  a  Woman's  right> 


THE  CORSAIR.  3-> 

"  The  wish  is  wrong— nay  worse  for  female— vain  : 
"  Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again ; 
"  If  but  to  thank  for,  wh.at  my  fear  forgot, 
"  The  life— my  loving  lord  remembered  not !" 

VIII. 
And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread, 
But  gathered  breathing  from  the  happier  dead ; 
Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host  880 

That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 
Fell'd— bleeding— baffled  of  the  death  he  sought, 
And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 
Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain, 
While  Vengeance  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  pain, 
And  staunch 'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again— 
But  drop  by  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 
Would  doom  him  ever  dying— ne'er  to  die ! 
Can  this  be  he  ?  triumphant  late  she  saw, 
When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law  !  888 

'Tis  he  indeed— disarm'd  but  undeprest, 
His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 
His  woundi  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 
Which  would  have  kiss'd  the  hand  tliat  then  could  lull. 
Oh  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 
To  send  his  soul— he  scarcely  asked  to  heaven  ? 

Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striv'n  and  struck  for  death  ? 

He  deeply  felt— what  mortal  hearts  must  feel, 

When  thus  revers'd  on  faithless  fortune's  wheel,  MP 

For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  threat 

Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt ;  but  evil  pride 

That  led  to  perpetrate— now  serves  to  hide. 

Still  in  his  stem  and  self-collected  mien 

A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen, 

Though  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffening  wound, 

But  few  that  saw— so  dimly  gaz'd  around  : 

Though  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd, 

Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud,  9 10 


S4  THE  CORSAIR- 

The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near, 
Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear— 
And  the  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 
In  silence  eyed  him  wkh  a  secret  dread. 

IX. 

The  Leech  was  sent—but  not  in  mercy— there 

To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear  ; 

He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain, 

And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain  : 

To-m»rrow—  yea — to  morrow's  evening  sun 

Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun, 

And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush_nf  morn 

Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 

Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 

While  famish'd  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

"  Oh  !  water — water !" — smiling  Hate  denies 

The  victim's  prayer— for  if  he  drinks— he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom  : — the  Leech,  the  guard  were  gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone. 

X. 

'Twere  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew— 
It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 
There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 
When  all  its  elements  convuls'd — combined- 
Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 
And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse  ; 
That  juggling  fiend— who  never  spake  before— 
But  cries, "  I  warn'd  thee  !''  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 
Vain  voice  !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent, 
May  writhe— rebel— the  weak  alone  repent! 
Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels 
And  to  itself  all— all  that  self  reveals, 
No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought 


THE  CORSAIR.  35 

But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews- 
All  mshing  through  their  thousand  avenues- 
Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 

Endanger'd  glory,  life  itself  beset  ; 

The  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 

'Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate  ;  °50 

The  liopeless  past— the  hasting  future  driven 

Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven ; 

Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remembered  not 

So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot ; 

Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 

But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime  ; 

The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd, 
Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceal'd— 
All— in  a  word— from  which  all  eyes  must  start, 
That  opening  sepulchre— the  naked  heart 

Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake, 
To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul— and  break'. 
Ay— Pride  can  veil,  and  Courage  brave  it  all- 
All— all— before— beyond— the  deadliest  fall : 
Each  hath  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 
The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise  : 
Not  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies  ; 
But  he  who  looks  on  death— and  silent  dies: 
So  steel'd  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  career, 
He  halfway  meets  him  should  he  menace  near  > 

XI. 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower, 

Sate  Conrad,  fetter'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 

His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame— this  fort 

Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 

Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 

His  foe,  if  vanquish'd,  had  but  shared  the  same  s— 

Alone  he  sate— in  solitude  had  scann'd 

His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann'd : 

One  thought  alone  he  could  not— dared  not  meet— 

*  Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  ifedora  greet  ?!'  Q«0 


36  THE  CORSAIR. 

Then— only  then— his  clanking  hands  he  rais'd, 
And  strain'd  with  vage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed  ; 
But  soon  he  found— or  feign'd— or  dream'd  relief; 
And  smil'd  in  self-derision  of  his  grief, 
"  And  now  come  torture  when  it  will— or  mayr- 
"  More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day  !'■ 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 

'Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  began. 
For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done ;  990 

And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 
She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 
One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  be  stemm'd— 
Disguis'd — discover'd — conquering— ta"  en — condemn'd— 
A  chief  on  land— an  outlaw  on  the  deep- 
Destroying— saving— prison'd— and  asleep ! 

XH. 
He  slept  in  calmest  seeming— for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep— Ah !  happy  if  in  death ! 
He  slept— Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends  ? 
His  foes  are  gone— and  here  he  hath  no  friends  ;  1000 

Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face !  0 

Its  white  arm  rais  d  a  lamp— yet  gently  hid, 
Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  clos  d  eye.  which  opens  but  to  pain, 
And  once  unclosed— but  once  may  close  again. 
That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 
And  auburn  waves  of  gemm'd  and  braided  hair; 
With  shape  offairy  lightness— naked  foot, 
That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute—       1010 
Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  same  it  there  ? 
Ah !  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare  ? 
Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare .' 
She  could  not  sleep— and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 


THE  CORSAIK.  3' 

She  left  his  side— his  signet  ring  she  bore, 
Which  oft  in  sport  adora'd  her  hand  before— 
And  with  it,  scarcely  question'd,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  tir'd  with  changing  blows,        1020 
Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose ; 
And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door, 
They  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more- 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 
Kor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder, "  can  he  calmly  sleep, 

f  While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  ? 

°  Aud  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here— 

"  What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear  ? 

"  True— 'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more,  I  owe,  1030 

»  And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe  : 

"  'Tislate  to  think— but  soft-his  slumber  breaks— 

"  How  heavily  he  sighs !— he  starts-awakes !" 

He  rais'd  his  head— and  dazzled  with  the  light, 

His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright : 

He  moved  bis  hand— the  grating  of  his  chain 

TooJiarshly  told  him  that  he  liv'd  again. 

"  What  is  that  form  ?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 

"  Methinks,my  jailor's  face  shows  wond'rous  fair  I" 

"  Pirate !  thou  know'st  me  not— but  I  am  one,  1040 

"  Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done ; 

•  Look  on  me— and  remember  her,  thy  hand 

"  Snatch  d  from  the  Barnes,  and  thy  more  fearful  band- 

•  I  come  through  darkness— and  I  scarce  know  why— 
■  Yet  not  to  hurt— I  would  not  see  thee  die." 

"  irso,  kind  lady !  thine  the  only  eye 

"  That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight : 

•  Theirs  is  the  chance— and  let  them  use  their  right 


38  THE  CORSAIK. 

"  But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thins, 

"  That  would  confess  meat  so  fair  a  shrine  P'  1050 

Strange  though  it  seem— yet  with  extremest  grief  *J^    . 
Is  link'd  a  mirth— it  doth  not  bring  relief— 
That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 
And  smiles  in  bitterness— but  still  it  smiles— 
And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 
Till  even  the  scaffold  [10]  echoes  with  their  jest ! 
Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin- 
It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  within. 
What'er  it  was  that  flash'd  on  Conrad,  now 
A  laughing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow  :  1060 

And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth, 
As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth ; 
Yet  'gainst  his  nature— for  through  that  short  life, 
Few  thoughts  haffhe  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 

XIV. 

"  Corsair !  thy  doom  is  named— but  I  have  power 

"  To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

"  Thee  would  I  spare — nay  more — would  save  thee  now, 

"  But  this— time— hope— nor  even  thy  strength  allow ; 

"  But  all  I  can,  I  will:  at  least,  delay 

"  The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day.  1070 

"  More  now  were  ruin— even  thyself  were  loath 

"  The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both.'' 

"  Yes!— loath  indeed :— my  soul  is  nerv'd  to  all, 

"  Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  a  further  fall : 

*  Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril— me  with  hope, 

"  Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  1  could  not  cope ; 

"  Unfit  to  vanquish— shall  I  meanly  fly, 

"  The  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die  ?•*■ 

"  Yet  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 

"  'Till  to  these  eyes  Tier  own  wild  softness  springs.       1080 

"  My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 

"  Were  ijiese— my  bark— my  sword— my  Iove~>iny  God  ! 


THE  CORSAIR.  s9 

"  The  last  I  left  in  youth— he  leaves  me  now— 

"  And  man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 

■  I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 

"  Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair, 

"  It  is  enough— I  breathe— and  I  can  bear-S 

"  My  sword  is  shaken  from  tfie  worthless  hand 

"  That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand  ; 

"  My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive— but  my  love—  10#6 

"  For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above  : 

"  Oh  !  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind— 

"  And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 

"  And  blight  a  form— till  thine  appeared,  Gulnare  ! 

"  Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  fair  .'" 

«  Thou  lov'st  another  then  I— hut  what  to  me 

"  Is  this— 'tis  nothing— nothing  e'er  can  be  : 

"  Bur  yet— thou  lov'st— and— Oh  !  I  envy  those 

"  Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose, 

"  Who  never  feel  the  void— the  wandering  thought         11 06 

"  That  sighs  o'er  visions— such  as  mine  hath  wrought." 

'•'  Lady— methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 

•  This  arm  redeem'd  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 

"  My  love  stern  Seyd's  ?  Oh— No— No-not  my  love— 
"  Yet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 
"  To  meet  his  passion— but  it  would  not  be. 

*  I  felt— I  feel— love  dwells  with— with  the  free. 
"  I  am  a  slave,  a  favoured  slave  at  best, 

"  To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest ! 

"  Oft  must  ray  soul  the  question  undergo,  111ft 

"  Of— Dost  thou  love  ?'  and  burn  to  answer  '  No  !' 

"  Oh  !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain, 

"  And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain  ; 

«'  But  hauler  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear, 

"  And  hide  from  one— perhaps  another  there. 

"  He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not— nor  withhold— 

"  Its  pulse  nor  chetfc'd— nor  guicken'd— calmly  c»1d'. 


40  THE  CORSAIR. 

"  And  when  he  quits— it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 
"  From  one  1  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 

*  No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest,  1 120 
"  And  chili 'd  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest.  ^ 

"  Yes— had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 

"  The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel : ' 

"  But  still— he  goes  unmourn'd— returns  uns  ought— 

"  And  oft  when  present— absent  from  my  thought. 

"  Or  when  reflection  comes,  and  come  it  must— 

"  I  fear  that  henceforth  'twill  but  bring  disgust ; 

"  I  am  his  slave— but,  in  despite  of  pride, 

"  'Twere  worse  than  bondrge  to  become  his  bride. 

*  Oh!  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease  !  1130 
"  Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 

"  But  yesterday— I  could  have  said,  to  peace  ! 

"  Yes— if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 

"  Remember— captive  I  'tis  to  break  thy  chain. 

i!  Repay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe  ; 

"  To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear'd  below, 

•'  Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  know. 

"  Farewell— morn  breaks — and  I  must  now  away   : 

"  Twill  cost  me  dear— but  dread  no  death  to  day  ! 

XV. 
She  press'd  his  fettered  fingers  to  her  heart,  1140 

And  bow'd  her  head,  and  tum'd  her  to  depart, 
And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 
And  was  she  here  ?  and  is  he  now  alone  ? 
What  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chain  ; 
The  tear  most  sacred— shed  for  others'  pain- 
That  starts  at  once— bright— pure— from  Pity's  mine, 
Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine  ! 
Oh  !  too  convincing— dangerously  dear— 
In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear ! 
That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield  1  ISO 

To  save— subdue— at  once  her  spear  and  shield- 
Avoid  it— Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs, 
Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers  ! 


THE  CORSAIR. 

What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly .' 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven, 

By  this— how  many  lose  not  earth— but  heaven  ! 

Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe, 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe  ! 

XVI. 
'Tis  morn— and  o'er  his  altev'd  features  play 
The  beams— without  the  hope  of  yesterday.— 
What  shall  he  be  ere  ni?ht  ?  perehance  a  thing 
Cer  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing  : 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfelt, 
While  sets  that  sun.  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 
Chill— wet— and  misty  round  each  stiffened  limb, 
Refreshing  earth— reviving  all  but  him  !— 


END  OF  CANTO  II. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO    III. 


*'  Come  vedi  — a 


SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  he  run , 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 
Not  as  in  Northern  climes  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 
O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
On  old  .Egina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile  ; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamia  ! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 
More  deeply  purpled  met  his  mellowing  glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 
Till,  dar  .ly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When— Athens  !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watched  thy  beter  sobs  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  [1 1]  latest  day  ! 
Not  yet— not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  t!>e  hill 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 


44  THE  CORSAIR. 

But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes : 
Glo&m  o'e%  the  lovely  land  h  e  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before, 
But  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithseron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woewasquaflPd—  the  spirit  fled  ; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scom'd  to  fear  or  fly— 
Who  Hv'd  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die  ! 

But  lo  !  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain,  1200 

The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.  [12J 

No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 

Hides  her  fair  face  nor  girds  her  glowing  form  ; 

With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 

There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray. 

And  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset 

Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 

The  groves  of. olive  spattered  dark  and  wide 

Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 

The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque  1210 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk,  [13] 

And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm, 

Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 

AH  tinged  with  varied  hues  arrest  the  eye— 

And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  Mgcaxt, heard  no  more  afar, 

Lulls  his  chaf 'd  breast  from  elemental  war ; 

Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 

Their  l»ng  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 

Mixt  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle,  1220 

That  frown— where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile.  [14j 

IL 

Not  now  my  theme— why  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee.  ? 
Oh  !  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea, 


THE  CORSAIR,  4* 

Nor  dmll  upon  thy  name,  whate'er  the  tale,  ^ 

So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail  I 
Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set, 
Fair  Athens  !  could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 
Not  he— whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 
Spell-bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades  ! 
Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain, 
His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain— 
Woald  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again  ! 

in. 

The  Sun  hath  sunk-and,  darker  than  the  night, 

Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height—. 

Medora's  heart— the  third  day's  come  and  gone— 

With  it  he  comes  not— sends  not— faithless  one  ! 

The  wind  was  fair  though  light— and  storms  were  none, 

Last  eve  Anselmo's  bar~  return'd,  and  yet 

His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 

Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale  1240 

Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens-she  that  day  had  past 

In  -watching  all  that  Hope  proclaim'd  a  mast ; 

Sadly  she  sate— on  high— Impatience  bore 

And  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 

And  there  she  wandered  heedless  of  the  spray 

That  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  wam'd  away : 

She  saw  not-felt  uot  this-nor  dared  depart, 

Nor  deemed  it  cold-her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 

Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense-  1250 

His  very  sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense  1 

It  came  at  last-a  sad  and  shattered  boat, 
Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought- 
Some  bleeding-all  most  wretched-these  the  few- 
Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped-f/tw  all  they  knew. 
In  silence  darkling  each  appeared  to  wait 
His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate. 
Something  they  would  have  said  ;  but  seemed  to  fea? 
To  trust  their  accents  to  Medjra's  eax1. 


46  THE  CORSAIR. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not— trembled  not—  126« 

Beneath  that  grief— that  loneliness  of  lot— 
Wit  •  in  that  meek  fair  form  where  feelings  high, 
That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 
While  yet  was  hope— they  soften'd— flutter'd— wept"- 
All  lost— that  softness  died  not— but  it  slept— 
And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 
' '  With  nothing  left  to  love— there's  nought  to  dread.1' 
'Tis  mire  than  nature's  ;  like  the  burning  might 
Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  you  stand— nor  would  I  hear  you  tell  12W> 

"  What— spea*  not— breathe  not— for  I  know  it  well— 
"  Yet  would  I  ask— almost  my  lip  denies 
"  The—  quiets  your  answer— tell  me  where  he  lies  ?" 

"  Lady !  we  know  not— scarce  with  life  we  fled ; 
"  But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead  : 
11  He  saw  him  bound  ;  and  bleeding— but  alive." 
She  heard  no  further— 'twas  in  vain  to  strive- 
So  throbb'd  each  vein— each  thought— till  then  withstood ; 
Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued- 
She  totters— falls— and  senseless  had  the  wave  1280 
Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave; 
But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes, 
They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supplies : 
Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew, 
Raise— fan— sustain— till  life  returns  anew  ; 
Awake  her  handmaids— with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve ; 
They  seek  Anselrao's  cavern  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious— when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange,     1290 
AVith  t  .oughts  of  ransom,  rescue  and  revenge; 
AH;  save  repose  or  flight— still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair  ; 
Whate'er  his  fatt— the  breasts  he  form'd  and.  led., 
Will  save  Jiim  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 


THE  CORSAIR.  47 

Woe  to  his  foes !  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 

V. 

Within  the  Haram's  secret  chamber  sate 

Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  captive's  fate ; 

His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell,  13S0 

Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell ; 

Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 

Surveys  his  brow— would  sooth  his  gloom  of  mind, 

While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  eye 

Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 

His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads,  [15] 

But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds* 

B  Pacha  !  the  day  is  thine ;  and  on  thy  crest 

"Sits  Triumph— Conrad  taken— fall'n  the  rest ! 

«  His  doom  is  fix'd— he  dies— and  well  his  fate  1510 

"  Was  earn'd— yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate : 

•'  Methinks— a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 

"  With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold; 

*  Report  speaks  largely  ofhis  pirate-hoard— 

"-  Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  Lord  ! 

"  While  baffled— weakened  by  this  fatal  fray— 

|  Watch'd— followed— he  were  then  an  easier  prey ; 

i  But  once  cut  oif— the  remnant  ofhis  band 

■  Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

••  Gulnare !— if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem  1 320 

"  Were  offered  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem  ; 

"  If  for  each  hair  ofhis  a  massy  mine 

■'  Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine; 

•'  If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

*  Of  wealth  were  here— that  gold  should  not  redeem  J 

|  It  had  not  now  redeem 'd  a  single  hour— 

"  But  that  I  know  him  fetter'd,in  my  power; 

"  And,  thirsting  forsrevenge,  I  ponder  still 

'  On  pangs  that  longest  rack— and  latest  kill.'* 


48  THE  CORSAIR. 


""  Nay,  Seyd  !— I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 

"  Too  justly  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage  ; 

"  My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 

"  His  riches— thus  released,  he  were  not  free : 

"  Disabled,  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  hand, 

"  His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 

"  His  capture  could  /—and  shall  I  then  resign 

"  One  day  to  him— the  wretch  already  mine  ? 

"  Release  my  foe !— at  whose  remonstrance—  thine,? 

"  Fair  suitor— to  thy  virtuous  gratitude, 

"  That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood, 

"  Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare, 

"  No  doubt— regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 

"  My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due— now  hear  I 

"  I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear : 

"  I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman  !  and  each  word 

"  Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 

''■  Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai— 

"  Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly? 

"  Thou  need'st  not  answer — thy  confession  speaks, 

"  Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks ; 

*'  Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee !  and  beware: 

*  'Tis  not  his  life  alone  may  claim  such  care! 
"  Another  word  and — nay— I  need  no  more. 

"  Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 
"  Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far— but— no— 
M  I  then  had  mourn'd  thee  with  a  lover's  woe— 
"  Now  'tis  thy  lord  that  warns— deceitful  thing ! 

*  Know  'st  ihou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing  ? 
"  In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe: 

*  Look  to  thyself—  nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe  !>' 

He  rose— and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 
Rage  in  his  eye  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 
Ah!  little  reck'd  that  chief  of  womanhood— 
Which  frowns  ne'er  quell'd.  nor  menaces  subdued ; 
And  little  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart — Gulnare  ! 
When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incens'd  could  dare. 
His  doubts  appear'd  to  wrong— nor  yet  she  knew 
How  deep  the  root  f torn  whence  compassion  grew— 


THE  CORSAIR.  49 

She  was  a  slave— from  such  may  captives  claim 

A  fellow  feeling— differing  but  in  name  ;  1370 

Still  half  unconscious— heedless  of  his  wrath, 

Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path, 

Again  his  rage  repell'd— until  arose 

The  strife  of  thought— the  source  of  woman's  woes  i 

VI. 

Meanwhile— long  anxious— weary— still— the  same 
Roll'd  day  and  night— his  soul  could  terror  tame— 
This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread, 
When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 
When  every  step  that  echoed  by  the  gate, 
Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await ;  1  $S9 

When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 
Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear  ; 
Could  terror  tame— that  spirit  stern  and  high 
Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die ;  "» 

'Twas  worn— perhaps  decayed — yet  silent  bore 
That  conflict  deadlier  far  than  all  before  : 
The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 
Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail  ^ 
But  bound  and  fix'd  in  fettered  solitude, 
To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood  ;  13§0 

To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart— and  meditate 
Irrevocable  faults— and  coming  fate — 
Too  late  the  last  to  shun— the  first  to  mend- 
To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 
With  not  a  friend  to  animate  and  tell 
To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well  ; 
Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie, 
And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny  : 
Before  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare, 
Yet  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear  ;       1400 
But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 
To  valour  s  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim ; 
The  life  thou  leav'st  below— denied  above 
By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love, 
And  more  than  doubtful  paradise— thy  heaven 
Of  earthly  hope— thy  loved  one  from  thee  riveru 


50  ,       THE  CORSAIR. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain., 

And  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain  : 

And  those  sustain'd  he— boots  it  well  or  ill  ? 

Since  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  still !  1410 

VII. 

The  first  day  pass'd— he  saw  not  her— Gulnare— 

The  second— third— and  still  she  came  not  there  ; 

But  what  her  words  avouch'd,  her  charms  had  done, 

Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  roll'd  along— and  with  the  night 

Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might : 

Oh !  how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep, 

That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep  ; 

And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 

Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element !  $420 

Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave, 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave  ; 

And  now  its  dashing  echoed  on  his  ear, 

A  long  known  voice— alas  !  too  vainly  near  ! 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above— and,  doubly  loud, 

Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud ; 

And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  the  lattice  bar, 

To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star  : 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chain, 

And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain.  1430 

He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  prayed 

One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made: 

His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike— 

The  storm  roll'd  onward  and  disdain'd  to  strike ; 

Jts  peal  waxed  fainter- ceased-  he  felt  alone, 

As  if  some  faithless  friend  had  spurn'd  his  groan  ! 

VIII. 

The  midnight  pass'd— and  to  the  massy  door, 

A  light  step  came— it  paused— it  moved  once  more ; 

.Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key— 

>Tis  as  his  heart  foreboded- that  fair  she  !  M4A, 

Whate'er  her  sins— to  him  a  guardian  saint, 

A»d  bfaHK°AV?  still  as  bermjvs  hope  can  paint ; 


THE  CORSAIR,  '• 

i 

Yet  changed  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek— more  tremulous  her  frame  : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dar-i  and  hurried  eye, 
Which  spoke  before  her  accents—"  thou  must  die  fc»- 
"  Yes  thou  must  die— there  is  but  one  resource, 

*  The  last— the  worst— if  torture  were  not  worse.'' 

"  Lady  !  I  look  to  none— my  lips  proclaim 

"  What  last  proclaim'd  they — Conrad  still  the  same  :    14! 

"  Why  should'st  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare, 

a  And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear  ? 

"  Well  have  I  earn'd— nor  here  alone— the  meed 

"  Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed.'? 

B  Why  should  I  seek  ?  because-Oh  !  didst  thou  not 
■  Redeem  my  soul  from  worse  than    slavery's  lot  ? 
"  Why  should  I  seek  ?— hath  misery  made  thee  blind 
"  To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  miud  ! 

*  And  must  I  say  ?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 

*  With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell—        »  14 
?  Because— despite  thy  crimes— that  heart  is  moved— 

"  It  fear'd  thee— thank'd  thee— pitied—  madden'd— loved. 
"  Reply  not— tell  not  now  thy  tale  again,  • 
"  Thou  lov'st  another— and  I  love  in  vain ; 

*  Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fair, 
"  I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 
°  If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 

"  Were  I  thine  own,  thou  wert  not  lonely  here— 

"  An  outlaw's  spouse — and  leave  her  lord  to  roam  ! 

"  What  hath  such  gentle  dams  to  do  with  home  !  14' 

"  But  speak  not  now,  o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head 

"  Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread  ; 

"  If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  would'st  be  free, 

"  Receive  this  poignard— rise— and  follow  me  !" 

*  Ay— in  my  chains !  my  steps  will  gently  tread, 

"  With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  header 
'"'  Thou  hast  forgot— is  this  a  garb  for  flight .' 
n  Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight  1'2 


n  THE  CORSAIR. 

*  Misdoubting  Corsair  !  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 

"  Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward.  1480 

"  A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain  : 

"  Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain  ? 

"  Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 

"  If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime : 
•"  The  crime— 'tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd— 

"  That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad— he  must  bleed ! 

"  I  see  thee  shudder— but  my  soul  is  changed— 
**'  Wrong'd— spurn'd— leviled— and  it  shall  be  avenged— 

"  Accus'd  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd— 

*  Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd.  1490 
"  Yes,  smile  !— but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 

'*  I  was  not  treacherous  then— nor  thou  too  dear-r 

"  But  he  has  said  it— and  the  jealous  well, 

"  Those  tyrants,  teazing,  tempting'to  rebel, 

"  Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 

"  I  never  loved— he  bought  me—  somewhat  high — 

"  Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 

"  I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring  ;  he  hath  said, 

"  But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 

"  'Twas  false  thou,  know'st— but  let  such  augurs  rue,      150O 

"  Their  words  are  omens,  Insult  renders  true. 

"  Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer ; 

B  This  fleefing  grace  was  only  to  prepare 

"  New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  ray  despair. 

"  Mine  too  he  threatens ;  but  his  dotage  still 

"  Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 

"  When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me, 

l:  There  yawns  the  sack— and  yonder  rolls  the  sea  ! 

"  What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 

"  To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ?  1519 

:'  I  saw  thee — loved  thee — owe  thee  all— would  save, 

"'  If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave.  ~ 

"  But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 

"  (And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife) 

"  I  still  had  saved  thee— but  the  Pacha  spared. 

"  Now  I  am  all  thine  own— for  all  prepared— 

"  Thoulov'st  me  not— nor  know'st— or  but  the  worst. 

"  Alas !  this  love— that  hatred  are  the  first— 


THE  CORSAIR.  S3 

"  Oh  !  could'st  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  would'st  not  start 

"  Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart,  1520 

"  'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety— now 

9  It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow: 

"  But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 

"  There  sleeps^-he  must  not  wake—the  oppressor  Seyd !" 

0  Gulnare— Gulnare— I  never  felt  till  now 

"  My  abject  fortune— withered  fame  so  low : 

°  Seyd  is  mine  enemy :  had  swept  my  band 

*  From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 

B  And  therefore  camel,  in  my  bark  of  war, 

"  To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar ;  153<(, 

"  Such  is  my  weapon— not  the  secret  knife— 

"  Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life— i 

"  Thine  saved  I  gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this— 

"  Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shewn  amiss. 

■  Now  fare  thee  well— more  peace  be  with  thy  breast  I. 

"  Night  wears  apace— my  last  of  earthly  rest  !■' 

c  Rest .'  Rest !  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake, 

"  And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 

"  I  heard  the  order— saw— I  will  not  see— 

"  If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee.  1 54*'-- 

ft  My  life— my  love— my  hatred— all  below 

"  Are  on  this  cast— Corsair  !  'tis  but  a  blow  J 

°  Without  it  flight  were  idle— how  evade 

*'  His  sure  pursuit  ?  "my  wrongs  too  unrepaid, 

fi  My  youth  disgraced— the  long— long  wasted  years^ 

n  One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears ; 

"  Bat  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 

0  I'll  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand— 

n  The  guards  are  gain'd — one  moment  all  were  o'er— 

"  Corsair !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more ;  1558; 

,:  If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 

f  Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud." 

IX. 

She  tum'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  reply, 
But  bis  glance  followed  far  with  eager  eye ; 


U  THE  CORSAIR. 

And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 

His  form,  to  cm!  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound, 

Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  bis  steps  preclade, 

He,  fast  as  ft  tiered  limbs  allow,  pursued. 

'Twas  dark  and  winding,  and  he  knew  not  where 

That  passage  led — nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there:       1560 

He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering— shall  he  seek 

Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak ! 

Chance  guides  bis  steps — a  freshness  seems  to  bear 

Full  on  his  brow,  as  is' from  morning  air — 

He  reached  an  open  gallery— on  his  eye 

Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night — the  clearing  sky — 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these— another  light 

From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight. 

Towards  it  he  moved,  a  scarcely  closing  door 

Reveal'd  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more.  1570 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past, 

Then:  paused— and  turn'd— and  paus'd — 'tis  she  at  last ! 

No  poignard  in  that  hand— nor  sign  of  ill— 

"  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart— she  could  not  kill  !'• 

Again  he  looked,  the  wildness  of  her  eye 

Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 

She  stopp.'d— threw  back  her  dark  fair  floating  hair, 

That  nearly  veil'd  her  face  and  bosom  fair : 

As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head  • 

Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread.  1580 

They  meet— upon  her  brow— unknown— forgot— 

Her  hurrying  hand  had  left— 'twas  but  a  spot — 

Its  hue  was  all  he  saw — and  scarce  withstood — 

Oh !  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime— 'tis  blood ! 

X. 

He  had  seen  battle— he  had  brooded  lone 

O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown— 

He  had  been  tempted— chastened— and  the  chain 

Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain — 

But  ne'er  from  strife— captivity — remorse — 

From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force —  1590 

So  thrill'd — so  shuddered  every  creeping  vein 

As  now  they  froze  before,  that  purple  stain. 


THE  CORSAIR. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak, 
Had  banish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 
Blood  he  had  viewed-could  view  unmoved- but  then 
It  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men ! 

XL 
«  'Tis  done— he  nearly  waked— but  it  is  done— 
"  Corsair  !  he  perish' d— thou  art  dearly  won. 
"  All  words  would  now  be  vain— away— away  ! 
"  Our  bark  is  tossing— 'tis  already  day— 
■  The  few  gain'd  over,now  are  wholly  mine, 
c  And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join : 
"  Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  my  hand, 
B  When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand." 

XII. 

She  clapp'd  her  hands— and  through  the  gallery  pour, 
Equipp  d  for  flight,  her  vassals— Greek  and  Moor  ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind  ; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind ! 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate, 
As  if  they  there  transferr'd  that  iron  weight- 
No  words  are  uttered— at  her  sign,  a  door         ^ 
Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore ; 
The  city  lies  behind— they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach  ; 
And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd, 
T$pr  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betrayed  ; 
Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIII. 
Embark'd,  the  sail  unfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew— 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review  ! 
Sunk  he  in  contemplation— till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchor'd  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah !— Since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown'd  above  the  mast, 
He  veil'd  his  face,  and  sorrowed  as  he  past ; 


1600 


S«  THE  CORSAIR. 

He  thought  of  all— Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand  ; 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride- 
He  turned  and  saw— Guluare,  the  homicide  !  163« 

XIV. 
She  wat«h'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bea* 
Their  freezing  aspect  and  averted  air, 
And  that  strange  fierceness  foreign  to  her  eye, 
Fell  quench'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him  and  his  hand  she  prest, 
"  Thou  may 'st  forgive  though  Alla's  self  detest  ; 
"  But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  ? 
"  Reproach  me— but  not  yet— Oh  !  spare  me  now  t 
"  I  am  not  what  I  seem— this  fearful  night 
*'  My  brain  bewilder'd — do  not  madden  quite !  164.0 

*  If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 

*  Thou  hadst  not  lived  to— hate  me— if  thou  wilt." 

XV. 
'She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesign'd  the  wretch  he  made ; 
But  speechless  all ,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 
They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell— his  breast. 
Still  onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 
The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge ; 
Far  on  th>  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck— 
A  spot— a  mast— a  sail— an  armed  deck  !  1SS0 

Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry, 
And  ampler  canvass  woos  the  wind  from  high ; 
She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 
Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier ; 
A  flash  is  seen— the  ball  beyond  their  bow 
Booms  harmless  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 
Uprose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 
A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance; 
'>  'Tis  mine— my  blood-red  flag— again— again— 
B  I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main  !  15<ii4 

They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 
Hoist  out  the  boat  at  oncej  and  sjacken  saUj 


THE  COBSAIR.  s? 

f  'Tis  Conrad  !— Conrad !"  shouting  from  the  deck, 

Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check  ! 

With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 

They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's  side  ; 

A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face, 

Their  arms  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 

He-half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 

Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  may  greet 

Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo?s  hand, 

And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command  . 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  o'erflow, 

Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a  blow  ; 

They  sail'd  prepared  for  vengeance-had  they  known* 

A-  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own, 

She  were  their  queen-less  scrupulous  are  they 

Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 

With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 

They  whisperround,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare  ;  !<** 

And  her,  at  once  above— beneath  her  sex, 

Whom  blood  appall'd  not,  their  regards  perplix. 

To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye, 

She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by  ; 

Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 

Which-Conrad  safe-tofate  resign'd  the  rest. 

Though  worse  than  phrenzy  could  that  bosom  fill, 

Extreme  in  love  or  hate-in  good  or  ill, 

The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still ! 

XVII. 
This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt-ah  !  could  he  less  i        1650 
Hate  of  that  deed-but  grief  for  her  distress  ; 
What  she  had  done  no  tears  can  wash  away, 
And  heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day  :• 
But-it  was  done-lie  knew,  whate'er  her  guilt, 
For  him  that  poignard  smote-that  blood  was  spilt— 
And  he  was  free  !-and  she  for  him  had  given 
Ker  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven  , j-,      .„, 


S&  THE  CORSAIR. 

And  now  he  turn'd  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave 

Whose  brow  was  bowed  beneath  the  glance  he  gave, 

Who  now  seemed  changed  and  humbled :— faint  and  meek, 

But  varying  oft  the  colour  of  her  cheek  1701 

To  deeper  shades  of  paleness— all  its  red 

That  fearful  spot  which  stain'd  it  from  the  dead! 

He  took  that  hand— it  trembled— now  too  late 

So  soft  in  love — so  wildly  nerved  in  hate  ; 

He  clasp'd  that  hand— it  trembled— and  his  own 

Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 

"  Gulnare  ."'—but  she  replied  not—"  dear  Gulnare  !•' 

She  raised  her  eye— her  only  answer  there — 

At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace :  1710 

If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-  place, 

His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 

But— good  or  ilh— it  bade  her  not  depart. 

Perchance,  but  for  the  boding?  of  his  breast, 

His  latest  virtue  then  had  joined  the  rest. 

Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 

That  asked  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this — 

The  first— the  last  tftat  Frailty  stole  from  Faith— 

To  lips  where  Love  had  lavish'd  all  his  breath, 

To  lips — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling,  1720 

As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

XVIII. 
They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle. 
To  them  the  rery  rocks  appear  to  smile, 
The  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  sound, 
The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 
The  boats  are  darting  o'er  the  curly  bay, 
And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray  ; 
Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill  discordant  shriek, 
Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak  ! 
Beneath  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleams,       1730 
Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 
Oh  !  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home, 
lake  hope's  gay  glauce  from  Ocean's  troubled  foam  ? 


THE  CORSAIR.  » 


XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower, 

And  midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower  : 

He  looks  in  vain— 'tis  strange,  and  all  remark 

Amid  so  many,  her's  alone  is  dark. 

'Tis  strange— of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd, 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguisb'd— only  veil'd. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore,  1740 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh  !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight, 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height ! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave, 

He  waits  not— looks  not— leaps  into  the  wave, 

Strives  through  the  surge-bestrides  the  beach— and  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye.. 

He  reach'd  his  turret  door— he  paused— no  sound 

Broke  from  within-and  all  was  night  around. 

He  knock 'd,and  loudly-footstep  nor  reply  1750 

Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh  ; 

He  knock'd-but  faintly-for  his  trembling  hand 

Refus'd  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 

The  portal  opens— 'tis  a  well  known  face- 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent— twice  his  own  essay'd; 

And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd  ; 

He  snatch'd  the  lamp— its  light  will  answer  all— 

It  quits  his  grasps-expiring  in  the  fall. 

He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray—  1760 

As  soon  could  he  have  lingered  there  for  day  ; 

But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore, 

Another  chequers  o'er  the  shadowed  floor ; 

His  steps  the  chamber  gain— his  eyes  behold 

All  that  his  heart  believed  not— yet  foretold  ! 

XX. 

He  turn'd  not— spoke  n6t— sunk  not— fix'd  bis  look, 
And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook : 


-»30  THE  CORSAIR. 

He  gazed— how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 
And  know— but  dare  not  own  we  gaze  in  vain  ! 
In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair,  177< 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  withered  there ; 
And  the  cold  flowers  [16]  her  colder  hand  contain'd, 
In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 
As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep, 
And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep  : 
The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow — 
~A.nd  veil'd— thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below— 
Oh !  o'er  the  eye  death  most  exerts  his  might, 
And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 
Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse,  17*0 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips- 
Yet— yet  they  seem  as  they  forebore  to  smile, 
And  wish'd  repose— but  only  for  a  while ; 
But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 
Long— fair— but  spread  in  utter  lifelessuess, 
Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 
Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  ; 
These— and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier— 
But  she  is  nothing— wherefore  is  he  here  I 

XXI. 

He  ask'd  no  question— all  were  answer'd  now  1790 

By  the  first  glance  on  that  still— marble  brow. 

It  was  enough— she  died- what  reck'd  it  how  ? 

The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 

The  source  of  softest  joy  and  tenderest  fears, 

The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate, 

Was  reft  at  once— and  he  deserv'd  his  fate, 

But  did  not  feel  it  less ;— the  good  explore, 

For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar: 

The  proud— the  wayward— who  have  fixed  below 

Their  joy— and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe,  1 S00 

lose  in  that  one  their  all— perchance  a  mite— 

But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  I 

Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 

Hide  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn  ; 


THE  CORSAIR.  W 

-And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid— not  lost— 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 

XXII. 

By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  are  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast ; 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 
Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none ;  181© 

No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show, 
And  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 
And  stupor  almost  lull'd  it  into  rest  ; 
So  feeble  now— his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept : 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 
Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if  seen, 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been  :  1830 

Nor  long  they  flowed— he  dried  them  to  depart, 
In  helpless — hopeless— brokenness  of  heart : 
The  sun  goes  forth— but  Conrad's  day  is  dim— 
And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him— 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 
On  Grief's  vain  eye— the  blindest  of  the  blind  ! 
Which  may  not— dare  not  see— but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade— nor  will  endure  a  guide  ! 

XXIII. 
His  heart  was  form'd  for  softness— warp'd  to  wrong— 
Betray'd  too  early,  and  beguil'd  too  long  ;  1830 

Each  feeling  pure— as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot ;  like  that  had  harden'd  too ; — 
Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd, 
But  sunk,  and  chill'd,  and  petrified  at  last. 
*  Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the  rock  ; 
If  such  his  heart,  so  shattered  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow, 
Thougp  dark  the  shade — it  shelter'd— saved  till  now ! 
The  thunder  came— that  bolt  hath  blasted  both, 
The  Granite's  firmness,  and  the  Lily's  growth  s  i840 


§2  THE  CORSAIR. 

The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  wither'd  where  it  fell, 
And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 
But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground  ! 

XXIV. 
'Tis  morn— to  venture  on  this  lonely  hour 
Few  dare— though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 
He  was  not  there— nor  seen  along  the  shore ; 
Ere  night,  alarm'd,  their  isle  is  travers'd  o'er : 
Another  morn — another  bids  them  seek) 
And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak  ;  1850 

Mount— grotto — cavern— valley  search'd  in  vain,1 
They  find  on  shore  a  seaiboat's  broken  chain-^ 
Their  hope  revives— they  follow  o'er  the  main. 
'Tis  idle  all— moons  roll  on  moons  away, 
And  Conrad  comes  not — came  not  since  that  day— 
Nor  trace,  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 
Where  lives  his  grief ,  or  perished  his  despair: 
Long  mourn'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside    ; 
And  fair  the  monument  they  gave  his  bride  : 
For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone —  1 869 

His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  known  ; 
He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
Link'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes. 


NOTES. 


The  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  occur- 
rences, but  the  whole  of  the  /Egean  isles  are  within  a  few 
hours  sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  reader  must  be  kind 
enough  to  take  the  wind  as  I  have  often  found  it. 

Note  1.  page  19,  line  21. 
Of  fair  Olympialov'd  and  left  of  old. 

Orlando,  Canto  10. 

/ 

Note  2,  page  23,  line  2. 
Around  the  ivaves phosphoric  brightness  broke; 
By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  stroke  6"f 
the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by  a 
slight  flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the  water. 

Note  3,  page  26,  line  9. 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry' s  juice. 
Coffee. 

Note  4,  page  26,  line  11. 

The  long  Chiboqutfs  dissolving  cloud  supply. 
Pipe. 

Note  5,  page  20,  line  12. 

While  dance  the  Almas  to  rvild  minstrelsy  ; 
Dancing-girls. 

Note  6,  page  29'  line  1. 
"  And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  laws  oppose." 
The  Dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  order;!,  as  the 
monks. 


6*  NOTES. 

Note  7,  page  29,  line  36. 
They  seize  that  Dervise— seize  on  Zatanal '. 
Satan. 

Note  8,  page  30,  line  21. 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  Jkd  the  fight, 

A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman  anger. 

See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  page  24.    "  The  Seraskier  re- 

"  ceived  a  wound  in  the  thigh  ;  he  plucked  up  his  beard  by 

"  the  roots,  because  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field." 

Note  9,  page  31,  line  30. 
Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare, 
Gulnare,  a  female  name ;  it  means,  literally,  the  flower  of 
the  Pomegranate. 

Note  10,  page  38,  line  8. 
Titl  even  the  scaffold  echoes  ivith  their  jest. 
In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaffold,  and 
Ann  Boleyn  in  the  tower,  when  grasping  her  neck,  she  re- 
marked, that  it  "  was  too  slender  to  trouble  the  headsman 
much."    During  one  part  of  the  French  Revolution,  it  be- 
-eame  a  fashion  to  leave  some  "  mot''  as  a  legacy  ;  and  the 
quantity  of  facetious  last  words  spoken  during  that  period 
would  form  a  melancholy  jest-book  of  a  considerable  size. 

Note  11,  page  43 ,  line  2fc 
That  closed  their  murdei'd  sage's  latest  day! 
Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset 
(the  hour  of  execution,)  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of 
his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

Note  12,  page  44,  line  10. 

The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign. 

The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own 

country;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  ftut  in  summer  -of- 

shorter  duration* 


NOTES.  65 

Note  13,  page  44.  line  20. 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk, 
The  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house ;  the  palm  is  with- 
out the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple ,of 
Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  intervenes.— 
Cephisus'  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stream 
at  all. 

Note  14,  page  44,  line  30. 

Tliat  frown— where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 
The  opening  lines  as  far  as  section  II.  have,  perhaps,  little 
business  here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpublished  (though 
printed)  poem  ;  but  they  were  written  on  the  spot  in  the 
spring  of  1811,  and— I  scarce  know  why— the  reader  must  ex- 
cuse their  appearance  here  if  he  can. 

Note  15,  page  47,  line  11. 
His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads, 
The  Combolio*.  or  Mahometan  rosary  3  the  beads  are  in 
feumber  ninety-nine. 

Note  16,  page  60,  line  5. 
And  the  cold  Jlmvers  her  colder  hand  contaitfd. 
In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the  bo.- 
dies  of  the  dead,  and  in  the  hands  of  joung  persons  to  place 
a  nosegay. 


THE  EN'S, 


POEMS. 


To  a  Lady  -weeping, 

WEEP,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
A  Sire's  disgrace,  a  realm"  s  decay  ; 

Ah,  happy  !  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  fathers  fault  away  ! 


Weep— for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears — 

Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles  ; 
And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 

Repaid  thee  by  thy  people's  smiles ! 

March,  1812, 


From  the  Turkish, 


1. 

THE  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound, 

The  heart  that  offered  both  was  true, 
And  ill  tieserv'd  the  fate  it  found. 


68  POEMS. 


These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell 

Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine ; 

And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, 
Alas  !  they  could  not  teach  thee  thino 


That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch ; 

That  lute  was  sweet— till  thou  could'st  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 


Let  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver'd  in  his  grasp, 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 
Restring  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 


When  thou  wert  chang'd,  they  alter'd  too;, 
The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute: 

'Tis  past— to  them  and  thee  adieu- 
False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute,» 


SOXNET. 

To  Genevra. 

THINE  eyes  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair. 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features— caught 
From  contemplation-— where  serenely  wrought, 

Seem,  Sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair^ 


POEMS. 

Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  an-, 
That— but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
"With  mines  of  unalloyed  and  stainless  thought— 
I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care* 
^Vith  shcIi  an  aspect  by  his  colours  blent, 

When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  born, 
(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn- 
Such  seem'st  thou— but  how  much  more  excellent  T 
With  nought  Kemorse  can  claim—nor  Virtue  scoro. 


SONNET. 

To  Genevra. 

THV  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  woe, 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow  : — 

KtxA  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes— but  oh  ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush. 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heavn's  airy  bow ; 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 

3Ieams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress  ; 

It  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  move,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 


Inscription  on  the  Monument  oj  a  Newfoundland  Do£. 

WriEN  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Cnknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 


70  POEMS. 

The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 

And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below  ; 

When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 

Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been  : 

But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 

The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 

Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 

Who  labours,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 

Unhonour'd  falls,  unnotie'd  all  his  worth, 

Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth  : 

While  man,  vain  insect !  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 

And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 

Oh  man  !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 

Debas'd  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power, 

Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 

Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 

Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 

Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit ! 

By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 

Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 

Ye  !  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 

Pass  on— it  honours  none  you  wish  to  mourn  : 

To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise, 

I  never  knew  but  one,  and  here  he  lies. 

New  stead  Mbey,  Oct.  'SO,  1808* 


Farewell. 

FAREWELL  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  other's  weal  availed  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But'  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky, 
'Twere  vain  io  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh : 

Oh  !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word— Farewell !— Farewell ! 


POEMS. 

These  lips  are  mutey  these  eyes  are  dry  ; 

But  in  my  breast,  and  in  my  brain, 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel ; 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain — 

I  only  feel— Farewell  .'—Farewell .' 


THE  END. 


C.  Stebbina,  Printer. 


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